The rag was tied across Ser Jorah Mormont’s head to hide his skin. He was sweaty enough without the cramped room being full of colored smoke, making his eyes smart. Lazy red and green lights filled the place, yet without actually brightening it. In the middle of the cramped space sat the old crone, black and silver hair shadowing her face. A bonfire, the source of the light, danced in front of them.
Fool. Jorah scolded himself for letting his desperations get the better of him. He had seen dragons, stone men and bloodmagic, but this was one too far. This… maegi, or whatever she calls herself, can be of no help to me. Her fame was another mendacious rumor spread by the locals of this city, a false artifact created to keep up pretenses of their former glory.
The silence of the room, occasionally broken by crackling of the flames, was starting to make him uneasy. Alone, Jorah felt he may somehow perish here, in sorrow and solitude. By instinct, his hand thought to grip his dagger, but before it moved, a voice croaked from the thick, ropey hair: “If I wanted to kill you, no blade would stop me.”
Despite what sounded like a threat, the odd tone of reassurance in her thick accents made Jorah halt, her slightest bit of conversation vanquishing at once his fear of death. Jorah, knowing death was at his doorstep regardless, felt desperation flow through his veins again. In that moment, he decided to renew his trust in the maegi with all hair and no face. “I am here,” he began, but the crone cut him off. “I have known enough people with greyscale to recognize its scent.”
Of course. As a sign of trust, Jorah unwound slowly the cloth from his face. Every time he used his arms, he was reminded how cumbersome they had become. The crone leaned closer to the flames and looked up at his face, parting aside her hair with fingers black and bony. Old, bottle green eyes shone at the knight’s direction. With sufficient light on the crone’s face, Jorah realized it was not the shadow that had made her skin look black, it was the flesh itself.
The crone pointed at his left arm mutely. “That is where I was touched, yes,” Jorah confirmed, without asking how she knew.
Without preamble, the maegi pointed at her arm and then the fire. Her eyes stared at Jorah in impatient expectancy, but Jorah was left unclear. Does she wish me to feel its heat? Clearly she was a woman of few words, but she was forced to use them for the sake of clarification. “Your hand,” she croaked violently. “In the fire.”
“In the fire?” The crone’s silence confirmed Mormont’s queries.
Jorah gazed into the green and crimson flames, wondering if he was victim to a cruel jape. The fire looked real enough, he could also feel its heat. He found himself trusting the lady who knew his intentions and illnesses before he put them to voice. I hope the greyscale is not affecting my sanity. After only a second’s hesitation, Jorah plunged his arms in the fire.
The pain came a second after, searing through his arm, piercing his heart. Jorah jerked his arm away from the fire in the same pace he had thrust it. His arm was not afire, but the pain was there. He tried not to yell, and instead grunts escaped his teeth. With the agonizing burn came the slight modicum of comfort that, at the very least, his arm was capable of feeling.
“Only dragonfire,” came the crone’s croaked reply, her green eyes now inspecting a bowl. While Jorah’s arm was among dancing lights, it seemed she had gathered the yellowing blood that escaped his cracked skin. Jorah processed her words, pain momentarily forgotten. “Did you say dragonfire?”
The crone’s reply was impatient. “There is magic in dragonfire,” she said, eyes not leaving her vessel. “When I heard of dragons in Meereen, I left the wyverns of Sothoryos for here. I managed to get some of their flames, and they have been aiding others ever since. Others, that is,” she said, with an uncharacteristic cackle, in tones that would frighten bears, “except for yourself.”
*
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